


fair musk-rose blooms

by aprettysmalldose



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Halloween, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:22:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprettysmalldose/pseuds/aprettysmalldose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mother's inscription reads, ‘Beloved Mother and Wife.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	fair musk-rose blooms

**Author's Note:**

> See end end notes for trigger warnings
> 
> Title from "A thing of beauty" - John Keats

_The machines beep softly, and his mother’s breathing slows. Tears slide down Stiles’ cheeks._

 

_“Mommy you’re going away forever? Please don’t go.”_

 

_“It’s ok,” she whispers, rubs her thumb gently over the back of his hand, “Forever is only a moment.”_

 

***********

 

It’s dark and he’s falling. The world is spinning around him, branches and rocks strike his body as it tumbles down. He has no control. He hits his arm against a tree, his leg becomes wedged in between a rock and a stump before inertia yanks him free to continue his way down the ravine. It hurts. He just wants it to be over why won’t it end?

 

And then it is.

 

Stiles wakes with a start. He sits up in bed and heaves a shaky sigh. Just the dream, nightmare, terror - whatever. That night had been a close call but it was a while ago now.

 

He shudders and doesn’t look around his room. He knows the shadows darken at the corners. He can feel it.

 

*******************************

 

Stiles is tired, he feels tired in his bones. He’s sitting in Roscoe, parked in his driveway, unable to stop reliving last night’s abysmal failure of a pack meeting. They’d all been piled in Scott’s living room, which had probably been their first mistake. It hadn’t started well, everyone has too much history with each other (almost none of it good) and _no one_ will fucking let it go, and by the end of the night, everyone was screaming at each other. Aiden and Jackson were physically incapable of _not_ starting some shit and Lydia kept saying how she was through with the pair of them, except for how she wasn’t. Danny and Ethan were the only calm ones there, which helped no one and nothing, cause all they did was sit back out of it.

 

Scott and Derek were at each other's throats, almost literally, and all Cora and Isaac and Allison did was glare at each other, make threats back and forth and crossways (what the fuck even is that random-ass threesome dynamic out of left field anyway, Stiles doesn’t fucking know). Fuck. It was hard.

 

It had made his head pound and his breath get all caught in his chest.

 

Stiles himself had had no plan. Actually Stiles hadn’t been able to do much of anything other than stand there while they all yelled at each other and wring his hands in helplessness as his stomach churned.

 

Darkness, darkness shadows and shade everywhere. Even now, he can see it creeping up on the edges of his vision. Fuck.

 

Stiles shakes himself out of it and goes inside.

 

His Dad is passed out on the kitchen table, or very near to it anyway. There’s about one whole swallow left in the bottle of scotch next to his head. Stiles avoids looking too closely at the pile of newspaper clippings and pictures spread around him and under him.

 

All Stiles can think, with a sense of helplessness, is, _it wasn’t supposed to be like this._ But he can’t think of what it was supposed to be instead. There’s darkness in his heart and in his head and he can’t feel clearly anymore.

 

He bullies and badgers his Dad up into bed, keeps up a wall of mother-hen-like chatter. He’s well versed in playing the role of the good son, after all.

 

“Damnit Stiles,” his Dad slurs.

 

All - _whatever_ \- it was supposed to be, _it was not supposed to be this._

 

But it is this. And it’s all Stiles’ fault. Everything. He’s killing his Father, he’s killing him in a hundred different ways, driving him into an early grave. Stiles can’t protect him. Not from the truth, not from the darkness, not even from himself.

 

He sits for a long time on his bed and stares at the shadows lengthening in the corners of his room.

 

He must fall asleep eventually, because he has the dream again. This time it’s less real but more terrible. He gets to hear everyone tell him all the ways he’s failed him as he falls past them, the living and the dead. The first one he falls past is his Mom. The last is Scott.

 

‘You dragged me out there and then you left me and you still refuse to admit you were wrong,’ echoes in his mind for hours and hours after he wakens.

 

*************

 

It’s a cloudy day, dreary and heavy-feeling. Stiles is sitting next to Scott on one of the benches outside the school. Stiles is completely zoned out; he started out thinking about weather patterns in Beacon Hills and moved onto supernatural creatures in weather and is now hovering in the land of rain monkeys. His brain, seriously. The others were here a minute ago, all camped out around Scott’s feet like some kind of adoring pack (even Lydia). But the lunch bell is about to ring and everyone is packing up and headed back inside. Stiles sighs. Today is boring and it blows.

 

"I miss you Stiles," Scott says softly, out of nowhere.

 

Stiles isn't sure what to say to that, he knows he's been distant, knows they haven't been spending any time together, not really, knows that they're growing apart. He turns his head to look at Scott. He’s just sitting there, arms braced on his knees, head bowed, and a defeated looking slump to his shoulders. Stiles opens his mouth but Scott gives himself a shake blows it off with a, “Forget it, s'stupid,” and stands and chucks the rest of his lunch in the nearby wastebasket as he heads back inside the school.

 

Stiles resolves to make some serious bro time, as soon as he gets himself under control.

 

Anything for Scotty.

 

******************

 

Stiles bugs out from lacrosse practice, even though he knows he's been doing better, pretty sure he's actually on first line, but he's tired and he doesn't feel like getting tackled around today. Fragile skin and bones, remember?

 

He winds up at Derek's before he realizes it - staring up at Derek's new apartment building.

He lets himself in, just for the scowl on Derek's face at the imposition, but that hope is thwarted because Derek is sprawled on his couch, asleep.

 

He’s wearing his most favoritest wife beater, (the white one) and a pair of comfy looking charcoal sweat pants. His feet are bare and Stiles actively does not think about how that makes him feel. Derek has one arm thrown over his eyes, and the other resting comfortably on his chest.

 

Stiles’ vague plan for this afternoon after ditching practice was to spend some time annoying Derek (because hey, someone in Beacon Kills(Hills whatever) deserves to have some fun some time, it might as well be him) but now he doesn't have the heart to wake him.

 

Stiles also has no clue what the fuck he’s doing now, just staring at Derek while he sleeps, noticing things like how soft and full his lips look, how open and almost vulnerable he looks with half his face covered and his mouth parted in sleep. He tracks the rise and fall of Derek’s chest and the curve of the muscles along his arm. And the sight of Derek’s bare feet hanging off the end of the couch completing the image is doing strange things to Stiles making him feel...feeling type things - and no, wait what? Stiles needs to get a grip, seriously.

Derek shifts slightly and Stiles’ mind starts grasping at valid reasons to give to Derek as to why he’s creeping up on him in his sleep, but all Derek does is sigh and then say softly, “Stiles."

 

Stiles swallows hard. Derek could be dreaming about anything, right? Right. That’s right. But there's this - _thing_ \- between them, that they never ever talk about or even acknowledge. That charge, that pull, almost like a gravity that exists just between the two of them and ensures that they run up against each other again and again and again. It’s something that makes the air in a room disappear; makes it hard to breathe - like right now. Stiles doesn’t know how long he just stands and watches Derek sleep, mind almost blissfully blank.

*****************

 

The Sheriff doesn’t come home that night. Stiles knows because he waits up for him, drifting in and out of sleep, but he never shows. Another all-nighter at the station. The house is quiet; empty, and the night is long. It’s filled with all the things that they aren’t saying to each other.

 

It’s filled with the heavy weight of his Father’s avoidance, the suffocating crush of his disappointment.

 

******************

 

Stiles and Lydia are in the Library, working in companionable silence. Well, Lydia is working Stiles is zoning out, possibly a proper dosage of Adderall was neglected this morning. He’s absently staring at the fall of her curls, the edges caught in the light, lit up red like fire when he starts in his chair and almost falls out of it. Lydia continues serenely on and Stiles shoots her a guilty look as he rights himself. It’s not a betrayal, right? Lydia totally doesn’t care _who_ he has a crush on, right? He swallows and and she tilts her head towards him. That’s Lydia-in-the-Library speak for ‘Shut the fuck up and settle down Stiles’. He settles down.

 

Lydia Martin no longer makes him breathless.

 

He winces as he thinks back on who does. Great. Trading one impossible crush for another.

 

At least he’s consistent, quality over quantity, that’s good, right?

 

**********************

 

It’s another cloudy, heavy, sort of depressing day. Apparently Scott and Isaac haven’t gotten the memo though. They’re chasing around after each other on the Lacrosse field, (though what they’re doing could only be called practice in the loosest of definitions). He feels so distant as he watches them horse around and whoop. He used to be able to do that, it used to be so easy. Now the idea of trotting over to join in is impossible. Stiles trudges off to the parking lot. _Later Scotty,_ he promises himself, _we’ll catch up later._

 

Stiles is unsurprised when he finds himself at Derek's, staring up at his apartment building again.

 

He shrugs and heads inside.

 

He’s about reached the door when it flies open with a bang, jarring in the stillness, and Cora storms out in a fury, if he hadn’t plastered himself to the nearest wall, she would have flattened him as she stomped by. Stiles isn’t even sure she saw him, that cloud of anger that’s gathered around her head is probably visible from space.

 

Stiles tiptoes softly in, carefully scanning the environment as he does. Derek is standing at the Table of Great Dreamings and Schemings (Stiles’ name no one else will admit it’s an awesome name and call it that).

 

Actually that had actually been a sort of fun evening. He’d defended his choice of name to Lydia, citing Derek Hale as the perfect Taran Wanderer. And then it had derailed into whether or not Stiles was Gurgi. Stiles maintains (to this day) that he is Princess Eilonwy. Derek had tried to give him shit about it saying, “Oh are you applying to be my girlfriend now?” with that smirk of his.

 

“Hey,” Stiles had said, “Eilonwy don’t take shit from nobody, especially not Taran.”

 

Scott had been offended until Stiles had assured him that he was Prince Gwydion in this semi-hypothetical scenario, and then he’d been almost unbearably smug. They’d been about to get derailed again, probably into the land of Hobbits and such but Danny had stopped them with a “Wait, wait, wait, - So who’s Gurgi?” and everyone had looked at Stiles expectantly. He’d paused for effect and then succinctly replied, “Isaac.”

 

That had done it for law and order for that evening, it took both Scott and Derek to pry him from Isaac’s chokehold and about a good 10 minutes after that for Stiles to stop howling with laughter. Allison had made a half-hearted attempt to bring them back on the track of solidified pack(s)? communications and it had almost worked till Derek had muttered to Cora, “What do you think I would have to do to get Stiles to stamp his foot and say, ‘Derek Hale I am not speaking to you?’ and then not speak to me?”

 

Stiles had heard him, everyone had heard him, Derek is not a subtle mutterer, and then they were all off again insults and laughter flying thick and fast. They hadn’t gotten much of any legitimate scheming done that evening, but then, it hadn’t really been that kind of evening. Scott and Stiles had agreed beforehand to go for a bonding approach. It had worked.

 

But that was a long time ago now, seems like.

 

Stiles catches back up to the present with a jerk. Derek is still standing at the table, arms braced on it, head bowed. The slope of his shoulders makes something catch in his chest, makes him miss something he’s never had. Stiles has never been able to understand how shoulders so broad can somehow look so fragile. It makes his heart leap about oddly. It makes him wants to slide his hand around the back of Derek's neck, stroke his fingers along the short edges of his hair and soothe away that tension singing along the lines of his body.

 

Stiles swallows and gets a grip.

 

"Hey Derek can we talk?"

 

He stiffens, and just as it looks like he's about to turn around and finally acknowledge Stiles’ presence, Derek’s cell rings, shrill and startling from where it’s lying on the table next to his hand.

 

Damnit. Stiles sighs as he rubs his hands over his face.

 

“Hale,” Derek answers. Stiles rolls his eyes but holds in his snort.

 

It's Scott, and almost immediately Derek's arguing with him, ‘yes’ this and ‘no’ that (lot of ‘no’s and growling to be honest). After a minute of this unproductiveness they settle into what sounds like a familiar argument; about the night that Stiles got hurt. It’s been probably about a month or so now, and no one seems to want to let it go. Except for Stiles. He would like to leave that night to the soothing joys of oblivion, thank you. But no. Everyone has to bring it up every five fucking minutes. Jesus.

 

That night Stiles had grabbed a ride with Derek to go see to the latest terror to descend on Beacon Hills. They’d just been hanging out at Derek’s place before they got the call from Isaac, bantering back and forth. It wasn’t until later that Stiles had the time to wonder at the ease of it, the rightness of it, being with Derek just because. He reflects now that that had been them being pulled yet closer together by the - the - whatever it is between them. But that night he'd wound up getting tossed down a ravine, gotten pretty beaten up, scared everyone half to death. Scott likes to blame it on Derek for bringing Stiles, Derek blames it on Scott right back for failing in his Alpha duties. Stiles likes to tell them both to shut the fuck up about it already. Not that they ever listen.

 

They're really going at it today, though, like it just happened last night or something.

 

“Why couldn't you save him Derek!? WHY COULDN'T YOU?!?” Stiles can hear Scott scream over the line and a chill descends over his heart.

 

The wood of the table groans loudly as Derek’s free hand clenches down on it in the silence that covers the loft. Then a girl screams over the line, tinny and small.

 

Well - great. In just another fantastic addendum to this already thrilling day, there's some (no doubt) supernatural shit going down.

 

“Cora, no!” Stiles hears from the phone and Derek roars, “Where are you!?”

 

Stiles doesn’t hear the answer but Derek’s already in action, swiping his keys from the kitchen counter and pounding out the door, Stiles right on his heels.

 

"Hey wait for me,” Stiles yells as Derek charges across the parking lot and flings himself into his car.

 

Derek doesn't wait, he peels out of the parking lot leaving Stiles standing in the metaphorical dust. "You asshole!” Stiles screams at his taillights, “LEAVING ME BEHIND DOES NOT SOLVE YOUR LOVERS SPAT WITH SCOTT!"

 

The force of his rage tears through him so completely it leaves him feeling faint. He puts his hands on his knees and doubles over, gasping for breath.

 

It takes him a few minutes but he gets himself together enough to reach back into his pocket for his phone, but it’s not there.

 

“What the fuck?” Stiles gets himself upright-ish and pats himself down, but he is decidedly phone-less.

 

Stiles can't follow after Derek (that rat _bastard)_ , doesn't know where they are, can’t believe he forgot his goddamn phone at home for fuck's sake, his Dad is gonna kill him. All he can do is trudge back upstairs and lie in wait for to murder Derek when he gets back.

 

****************

 

He waits and swears that he feels every agonizing second as it passes.

 

He waits and more seconds pass.

 

Agonizingly.

 

Shadows lengthen and the chill of night sets in. Stiles can feel the darkness pressing in all around him but he ignores it. _Fuck you,_ he thinks.

 

Finally, he hears the low hum of Derek’s engine. Stiles paces back and forth as he waits for Derek to make it back upstairs, whipping himself back up into a righteous fury.

 

Derek is on the phone as he exits the elevator and walks down the hallway.

 

“No Sir,” he says, “Everyone is fine. No, no Sir we don’t know what yet. Deaton promised to call you as soon as he has a theory.” Everyone is fine? That’s good for everyone bad for Derek, Stiles is gonna let him have it.

 

Derek pauses at the doorway, (pretending that Stiles isn’t hovering in wait, giant dick that he is) and says softly, “I - yes, yes I will Sheriff. Thank you. Goodbye.” Stiles narrows his eyes. Guilt or no guilt, if he finds out his Dad is behind this ‘quarantine Stiles from danger’ schtick he will flip his shit.

 

Derek looks like he’s carrying the weight of mountains but Stiles ruthlessly quashes his empathy down and pounces on him as soon as he's in the door, starts right in on him with, “How fucking dare you, if you ever even _think_ about ditching me like that again I will fucking _end_ you Derek, there will be wolfsbane and pain and the subtle poisoning of your food for _months,_ DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME I WILL FUCKING BREAK OUT THE MISTLETOE ON YOUR WEREWOLF ASS,” Stiles pauses to ground himself, his anger is making him feel all fuzzy and dizzy again.

 

Stiles is shocked when instead of responding, Derek suddenly collapses back against the door, slides down it to the floor, lowers his head in his hands, and starts shaking his body with dry, aborted, hoarse sobs.

 

Stiles doesn't know what to do.

 

"Stiles, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry Stiles please, I'm sorry - Stiles please," He murmurs brokenly.

Stiles drops on his knees in front of Derek, wants to wrap his arms around him, touch him, hold him, but isn't quite sure how, and so his hands just sort of - flutter around Derek’s arms and shoulders, uselessly.

 

"I,” Stiles swallows hard. “Ok. It's ok, I'm sorry too," he says; is all he can say. Stiles wants, desperately, more than anything to touch Derek, but he fists his hands over his knees instead.

 

Slowly Derek calms, and Stiles is overcome with the need to be closer, to be closest to Derek.

 

"Derek...are we friends?" He asks thickly, afraid of everything all of a sudden.

 

Derek sighs. "Yeah..."

 

Stiles swallows, he feels light and floaty, dizzy and trembly and ready to be more. "Do you think...maybe we could be more? I mean, if I'm out in left field here just let me know and I will go ok Stiles will get gone - but I just think we could be something, be something _more_ to each other you know? Maybe it's crazy maybe _I’m_ crazy but I want to try -"

 

"Ok," Derek breathes, head bowed, eyes closed, shudders like he's giving in to something, gently knuckling his forehead, "Ok,” he breathes out again, breathes back in; calming.

 

Derek heaves himself to his feet and Stiles scrambles up to follow him, shaking all over even as Derek’s tremors still.

 

Derek still has his head bowed, but as Stiles starts to reach out to him, mouth gaping open to say something along the lines of ‘what really?’ Derek starts to lift his head up and just before their eyes meet, Cora busts in whacking Derek a good one on the back with the door and Stiles jumps nervously back.

 

Cora wastes even less time than Stiles before laying into Derek about his, (apparently) total disregard for his own well being, especially in relation to certain family members that he does actually still possess.

 

Stiles gulps and backs away from the possible collateral zone of her wrath and sneaks around the two of them to the door. Quick exits are key. He knows this because he’s friends with Lydia Martin. “I’ll just come back later,” He mumbles as inoffensively as possible and bugs out. He kind of feels like a dick for leaving Derek but if the positions were reversed Derek would have snuck out _so_ fucking fast, Stiles probably cannot even imagine.

 

"You have to move on!" Cora's screams follow him down the stairs and out into the night.

 

**************

 

Stiles falls once again down the ravine, every movement and nuance of the event drawn out and exaggerated in the slow-time of dreamland. Derek reaches for him as the creature whirls around from tossing Stiles aside and flings itself at his chest. Scott roars from across the clearing and Lydia shrieks “Stiles!” He falls and they, all of them, all the people he loves tell him in flat voices how he’s failed them. “I don’t need you,” Derek says as he tumbles past him, face and eyes impartial and it’s that voice that follows him into waking; has him choking back tears as he sits up on his bed.

 

Stiles wanders downstairs with the vague idea of milk and pauses, caught by the sight of the Sheriff asleep on the couch. The Sheriff doesn’t look drunk, just tired. He looks tired and broken and Stiles did that.

 

Stiles has to stop looking at him it hurts so much. He goes into the hall closet and pulls out his mother’s afghan. Stiles settles it gently around his Dad, wraps him up nice and snug.

 

The Sheriff rolls over sleepily, and Stiles says, “Don’t want you to catch cold, Daddy,” nervously but he doesn’t wake up. "Good kid," he mumbles as Stiles tiptoes back out.

 

What a lie that was.

 

***************************

 

Stiles is over at Derek's, camped out on the rug by the coffee table, working on homework in the living room while Derek reads on the couch. Well, pretending to work on homework anyway. Mostly he just oogles Derek. He memorizes him. The way the light rests on his cheeks, the way the shadows shade his temple. The crescent sweep of his lashes, full and dark against the pale of his skin. It’s easy again; them, this, together. It’s right. Stiles doesn’t even wonder how he got here, it just is.

 

It's pretty late when Stiles comes back down to earth with a jerk. Derek is standing up and stretching. Stiles may or may not have been drooling, lost in Derek la-la-land but his mouth goes dry at the strips of muscle and skin, the dark trail of hair that is revealed as Derek’s shirt rides up.

 

"Are you going to bed? Should I leave?"

 

Derek slides a hand underneath his shirt, strokes his chest, whispers, "Stiles,” as his eyes flutter closed.

 

Stiles makes a very unmanly squeaking sound. Is Derek fucking _teasing_ him?

 

Derek turns to walk down the hallway and sheds his shirt as he does. Stiles composes about a million sonnets on the spot to the dark ink of the triskele on his smooth skin, the hard planes of his back, the column of his neck and curve of his spine.

 

Stiles trails after him led on by the promise of sex, and he’s not disappointed as Derek shucks his pants off with an easy grace in his bedroom doorway. Stiles loses the ability for coherent thought at the sight of the muscles of his thigh, the shape of his calves the flex of his _hello Stiles keep it together._

 

Stiles gulps and tries to remember if he’s ever been this turned on in his life. Excitement and anticipation don’t even begin to cover it as Derek slides his boxers off before he crawls onto his bed. The hallway light spilling in from back in the living room is the only illumination, and the contrast leaves all the really interesting bits of Derek covered in shadow.

 

Well fuck a Stiles ( _oh please_ ) if that doesn’t make it more of a fucking turn on. Stiles walks in on trembling legs and closes the door behind him.

 

“Stiles,” sighs Derek in the dark.

 

“Derek,” Stiles sighs right back.

 

************************

 

The morning light wakes Stiles, bright like a headache. He and Derek are lying next to each other on the bed, sprawled out but not touching, Derek on his back, Stiles on his stomach. Stiles manfully reigns in the urge to whimper at the sight of Derek’s bare chest, the sheet twisted around his hips and legs.

 

For a moment, Stiles dares, trails his hand down over Derek’s skin. He shivers underneath Stiles’ fingertips, his nipples pebble up and he groans out a barely legible, "Stiles please."

 

Oh, Stiles pleases alright.

 

And then he flails in surprise so hard, he flips himself off the bed.

 

"Oh crap School!" he yelps and Stiles is off, careening through the apartment and out the door.

 

He catches sight of the microwave clock on his way out. 8:30 oh he is late late _late._

 

Guiltily, he hopes that last night was another night the Sheriff didn’t come home.

 

********************

 

Stiles rushes home after school but it looks like the coast is clear, his Father is not lying in wait to hear why he never came home last night or why he was late to school.

 

Stiles winces at the conversation they are probably going to have to have at some point though. No one in the history of ever has wanted to have, you know, _that conversation_ with their father.

 

For a moment Stiles wonders if he should hang out until his Dad shows up but (with another heaping of oh-so-familiar guilt) he ditches that idea and hightails it over to Derek. Because Derek. And Stiles can has now, ok? Ok. Awesome.

 

When Stiles arrives he finds (instead of the evening with Derek he was expecting) a pack meeting that he was not (for some reason that will be discovered forthwith) invited to. It is literally, every single person _but_ Stiles, who has had about enough of ‘protect the defenseless mastermind human’ bullshit as he can take.

 

He’ll have to wait his turn to go apeshit because Scott and Derek are already screaming terrible things to each other, faced off in the space in front of the Scheming Table. Accusations from years ago, blame and mistrust and betrayal, all of it appears to be coming to a head.

 

Everyone else is sort of hunkered down in the living room; that’s as close to Scott and Derek’s rage fest as they appear willing to get.

 

“Ok, calm down,” Stiles orders, stepping out into that no man’s land, “before one of you idiots says something you’ll really regret.”

 

They both ignore him. Stiles grinds his teeth.

 

“A little help here Dannyboy,” he calls over to Danny on the couch, but Danny appears to be sickly enthralled by the impending fuck-up that this meeting is about to become.

 

“Allison, Lyds, _anybody_ help me out here.” Nothing. Allison is sitting on the edge of the coffee table, head hanging, Lydia ignoring him from where she’s standing by the couch.

 

“Everything is your fault, Derek! And when I say everything, I _mean everything!”_ Scott yells, face red and body taut, the cords on his neck standing out.

 

“You can’t have all the power and none of the responsibility Scott, that’s not how this works,” Derek snarls, arms crossed over his chest and breathing harshly.

 

“HA! That’s a riot, coming from _you!”_ Scott sneers back.

 

“WILL YOU TWO ASSHOLES KNOCK IT OFF NOW PLEASE!” Stiles yells so hard he makes his head hurt with the force of it.

 

Lydia shudders, rubs her hands up and down her arms, but that’s the only reaction. No one else so much as blinks.

 

Every emotion drains out of Stiles, sinks down through his stomach. “What the f-,” he shakes his head in confusion.

 

“I hate you,” Scott screams, “I HATE YOU!”

 

“You can’t blame me just because you took him for granted!” Derek yells, his control starting to fray.

 

“Scott, could you look at me _for two seconds here please!”_ Stiles demands in the wake of the silence of Derek’s last accusation.

 

Scott’s hands clench into fists at his side, but he doesn’t even blink.

 

“What’s happening what’s happening,” Stiles gasps, panicking, everything turning cold and dark and making his vision go spotty at the edges.

 

“LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME” He screams, losing control, losing what feels like the whole of his sanity, but he can’t stop, “I’m right here WHAT IS WRONG WITH EVERYONE LOOK AT ME!” Stiles gasps and his chest heaves but it’s like he’s not breathing at all.

 

Silence reigns in the apartment, and Stiles looks back over to see Derek staring at the space where Stiles is standing with a desperate look on his face, “Stiles?” he asks.

 

“Stiles is dead!” Scott shouts.

 

A roaring fills his ears and a whiny ‘noooo’ escapes up from his throat and out of his mouth.

 

Stiles can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, he’s not breathing, _ghosts don’t breathe._

 

No. He’s not a ghost.

 

And then he’s falling again. The world is spinning around him, branches and rocks strike his body as it tumbles down. He has no control. He hits his arm against a tree, hears the sick ‘snap’ as it breaks. His leg becomes wedged in between a rock and a stump before inertia yanks him, ripping sinew and bone alike, free to continue his way down the ravine. It hurts. He tumbles over a downed tree and feels something in his spine give. He just wants it to be over why won’t it end?

 

And then it does. Stiles lands in a broken, bloody heap at the bottom of the ravine. It’s like he’s standing beside himself, can see the unnatural twist of his neck, can see the light leave his own eyes. ‘No, no NO No _NO no no_ ’ Derek’s screaming and crying as he crashes down after Stiles. He probably heard Stiles’ heart stop.

 

Derek drops to his knees beside his body and whispers brokenly, over and over, ‘please no Stiles please, please, I’m gonna ask you out I promise, you’re gonna say yes, we’re going to be great together I promise not to wait any longer, yeah? Ok? Stiles please.’ His hands hover over Stiles broken body desperately before he gathers Stiles up into his arms and rocks back and forth, grief overtaking him.

 

Up on the ridge above them, Scott howls like a demon escaped from hell, rage and loss and pain.

 

Stiles can’t breathe because he’s dead. He died. Dead people don’t breathe.

 

*****************

 

Stiles is at the cemetery. He knows just where to go, and wanders over there in a trance - to his mother's grave. There’s a new gravestone right beside it. It says, Krzesislaw ‘Stiles’ Stilinski.

 

His mother's inscription reads, ‘Beloved Mother and Wife.'

 

His, his grave, _Stiles'_ grave reads simply, 'Beloved'.

 

********************

 

Stiles is at home, watching his Dad go over a case file. Watches as he rubs his forehead with the heel of his palm. What should he do? Where should he go? Where _can_ he go? Is he _supposed_ to go somewhere? Is he stuck? Does he want to be unstuck?

 

******************

 

Stiles finds himself at Scott's, up in his room. Scott’s sitting on his bed, head in his hands. Stiles sits beside him and tries to think of something to say but it doesn’t matter does it? Scott can’t hear him anyway. This whole death thing is beyond depressing. After a while Melissa comes in and sits beside him herself. After a moment she draws him into an embrace and Scott breaks down. He sobs like he’s dying, wails, "I miss him Mom,” into her shoulder.

 

"I know, I know,” she whispers, strokes his head, strokes his back. “Baby, Stiles loved you with all his heart. Don't give up, because he would never, ever give up on you."

 

"It's so h-h- _hard_ without him," Scott sobs.

 

"I know baby, I know,” And now Melissa’s tears are joining Scott’s.

 

Stiles doesn’t want to see any more.

 

**********************

 

Derek is asleep on the couch again. "Derek." He swallows. "Derek I - I think I realized too late that I - that I love you. And that, maybe, you loved me. I'm sorry I died. It wasn't your fault. It's not Scott's fault. It wasn't even mine. It just happened. I think - I think I have to go now? I feel like there's somewhere I should be but I don't know quite where it is. I feel like I need to find it though, maybe. Will you, can you, please watch out for my Dad? Make sure he eats right and don't let him kill himself with work and maybe keep him company sometimes so he's not so alone?"

 

"Stiles," Derek murmurs. "Stiles, don't go."

 

“Goodbye Derek.”

 

"Stiles don't leave me!" Derek jerks awake, eyes wide.

 

And just like that, he can’t leave, he doesn’t leave. He won’t.

 

He stays and skims ghostly hands down Derek’s chest as he lies in bed and gasps Stiles’ name. He stays and sits near Derek on the couch, so the chill will remind him that he’s not alone.

 

He stays and watches with ghostly approval as Derek and Cora mount a campaign to feed the Sheriff actual real food. He stays with gratitude as Derek watches over Scott and all his friends as they leave for college, grow up, come back leave again and _live_.

 

Stiles stays and talks to Derek while he sleeps, tells him all the things he won’t allow when he’s awake. That he’s beautiful and gentle and kind. That he’s brave and good and strong. That he’s beloved that he’s loved. That Stiles is waiting for him, will wait for him forever.

 

It’s darkness and darkness and Derek only some days, but Stiles endures. He waits.

 

For Derek? Forever is just a moment.

 

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH BEWARE
> 
> [Tumblr!](http://rizuno.tumblr.com/) You know, if you feel the need to tell me about what A TERRIBLE PERSON I AM OHHHH SO BAD I'M BADAWFULBAD


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